


Zapped

by Silberias



Series: Sherlolly Parallel Stories - Jolt & Zapped [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, F/M, Recovery from amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-07 19:23:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 10,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16414415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silberias/pseuds/Silberias
Summary: Sherlock can't remember her. She's been completely deleted by that overpowerful brain of his after a terrible accident, but despite this Molly will stay at hand for as long as it takes. She's always believed in him, even when he's been at his very, very lowest. Amnesiac!Sherlock, Sherlolly ship!





	1. Chapter 1

Molly had stayed with him through the terrible— _terrible—_ ravages of his drug addiction. She was the one who coaxed him into going to family dinners with his brother's family. Molly attempted to keep him in, some nights, rather than letting him roam the streets. The flat they shared was spartan so as to make it easier for Molly to dispose of any drugs he brought home with him. She had endured it for five years, and endured was certainly the word. Sherlock always proposed to her when he was high as a kite, claiming to love her for all eternity. She'd always declined, saying that he wouldn't remember in the morning and to ask her again if he did. It was painful, more painful than Molly thought she could ever deal with.

Eventually he'd come to the family, saying that he needed help. He'd finally said to her and his brother that he would do whatever it took—Sherlock had taken her aside, even, and started to say something, something she knew he always meant to say when sober but apparently always forgot. Molly had shushed him, stroking a hand down his cheek. She told him he should save his words for once he was better—if he still wanted or needed to say something, he ought to say it then.

When he actually took her hand, just outside of the rehab clinic, and kissed it Molly's eyes had welled up with tears of surprise and gratitude.

"Molly, would you marry me?"

She'd giggled as he'd drawn her into his arms.

"As in ever? Or are you asking right now?"

Molly still doesn't know how or when he'd gotten his hands on the ring—and doesn't want to think of how painful it must have been to hear her constantly say no when he proposed to her with his head full of coke. All she knows is that it was midmorning, and Sherlock looked rather gaunt but a certain vitality returned to his eyes as he looked at her. Sherlock had proposed there, right out on the pavement next to the rehab clinic.

She'd said yes of course.

They'd gone to Mycroft's next, and been applauded. Mycroft's wife had even made Sherlock's favorite meal, just to celebrate so many happy things. Mycroft's children had come and hugged their uncle tightly, and at the end of the night Sherlock had tugged Molly into one of the guest bedrooms.

"I hope that it wasn't…too soon, or overwhelming." He was holding her close, stroking his fingers through her hair. Molly snuggled into his chest, completely content.

"You've been proposing for years, Sherlock, but today was the first day I could let myself believe that it was real. That you really meant it, that it wasn't one of your demons or whatever talking for you instead."

"Of course I meant it, I meant it every time—I mean it now. I want, for the next fifty years or so that we've got left, to live with you at my side. I don't want you to ever leave me—I understand if you have to, but I don't _want_ you to."

"I won't ever leave, Sherlock, not ever."

"So, Doctor Hooper, I'm to assume that you mean for _ever?_ "


	2. Chapter 2

The nice detective from the Yard tried to say it was all his fault rather than paint Sherlock as the worst of idiots. Molly knew better—she knew her Sherlock. He'd gone running ahead in the old abandoned warehouse. He'd fallen through a bad patch in the floor. He'd hit his head—luckily her future brother-in-law worried about Sherlock almost as much as Molly did herself. Luckily Mycroft had a great deal more power over the world than little Molly Hooper. Help had been on the way nearly from the moment Sherlock had realized his mistake.

"You're the fiancé, yeah?" the man sat down heavily next to her. He had been the one to jump down through the hole Sherlock had fallen through and do the first assessments of his injuries. The man they were following had gotten away.

His badge, hanging on a lanyard around his neck, said _DI Lestrade, G._ and there was a picture of him from when he'd had brown hair rather than the silvery mass on his head at the moment. He had a coffee in his hand. He had a ring on, older and never taken off judging from how easily it sat on his finger.

"Molly Hooper, yes. We're getting married next year. Sherlock was in…a bad spot, but he's better now. I'm sure he'll pull through this just fine. Mycroft said on the phone that it was probably just a concussion and that Sherlock was being dramatic again." Lestrade smiled a little and handed his coffee over to her, got up to stretch and then wandered over to the machine to get another hot drink. He never wandered back.

Molly warmed her hands on Lestrade's coffee until Mycroft arrived and switched the cup with tea. There was a tense energy to his form that would have worried her any other day—when she wasn't too busy worrying over Sherlock and the fact that no one had come to speak to her about his condition for several hours. It was like she'd been forgotten. Her almost-brother-in-law lowered himself gingerly into the space that Lestrade had left behind.

"Molly…"

She stilled, not looking up from the cup he'd put in her hands. She didn't want to hear it—she didn't want to—Sherlock was dead, he had to be if Mycroft was here being so gentle with his tone and his manner. Molly's eyes filled with tears, and she tucked her lips between her teeth so she could bite them together to keep from sobbing.

"Molly it was touch-and-go for a while. You've been to medical school, you know how it is. He's alive, for the moment, and he will make it."

The tears spilled in one mighty gush down her cheeks in utter relief—whatever else Mycroft could bring out, nothing was worse than Sherlock being _dead_ from his injuries. It would have been so cruel that the very thing which kept him from the drugs—becoming a freelance detective or whatever he wanted to call it—was the thing that actually killed him. Molly choked out a sob, unable to keep it in, which sounded more like laughter at the thought that she would prefer Sherlock the Junkie over Sherlock the Dead Body.

"But he did hit his head. Quite severely, I might add. He's lucky he didn't break his neck."

She snuffled, nodded, wiped her tears.

"They aren't sure if he's sustained anything major, and they won't know until he wakes up. I…I cannot stay to be there when he does, but I've arranged it for you to stay with him if you would. He's in a private room, with a shower and toilet so you needn't leave his side too often. Someone will bring you a small bag with a change of clothes, too."

Mycroft smiled one of his too-rare smiles at her after she nodded hesitantly, patting her hand and standing up to lead the way to Sherlock's room.


	3. Chapter 3

Molly ended up staying with Sherlock for the next several weeks, for days at a time just camping at his bedside. She asked Mycroft to send her a book on knitting, and struggled with learning the craft as her silly detective slept on, unaware. She held his hand for hours on end some days, telling him all about how much she liked that flat on Baker Street that he'd found—telling him to remember to tell her just how he'd gotten such a low-rate on it despite the location. She told him, shyly because she knew Mycroft had the place bugged, that she wasn't sure if she wanted lots of kids or just one. She wanted to see as many permutations of their genes as possible, but she also wasn't sure she wanted to share him with a small horde of children and babies.

The doctors and nurses spoke to her of the hopes and chances that Sherlock had, based on the readings which they seemed to think she couldn't discern. Molly knew it wasn't good—he had nothing _keeping_ him asleep. He just was. Molly knitted him a scarf, in a pretty color of green that she liked to see on him despite how it drained the color from his skin. After it was done she tucked it into the small bag of his personal effects—things he could wear once he was released, as well as his mobile phone, his watch, and his wallet.

Occasionally she napped, curled up at his side. Molly tried hard not to cry—if he could hear her, she didn't want him any more distressed than he probably already was—but sometimes she did. She just wanted her daft stupid man back—clever and intelligent at so much more than books but such a dolt other times. Molly didn't care whatever else happened—he could have sympathetic blindness, or a twitch, or a tendency to yelp, or maybe be unable to recall certain words—she just wanted the idiot who'd proposed to her for years and who she was finally going to marry.

"Are you the nurse? A bit forward, don't you think?"

Molly startled out of her doze, curled up against his side for a nap. Sherlock's voice was rusty with disuse, but his blue eyes were amazingly awake and alert. She smiled hesitantly, shaking her head.

"No, not the nurse, Sherlock—remember, I graduated last year."

His lips, already pursed with confusion, melted into a straight out frown. He cleared his throat, eyes subtly checking for water or something nearby—he must have been quite uncomfortable, all stuffed full of tubes and not a drop of water to actually swallow for weeks.

"Graduated from what?"

Molly knew, right then, what was wrong. But she tried anyway, out of desperation and heartbreak.

"Sherlock, it's me—Molly. Molly from university, Molly from medical school—Molly who you're—"

"I don't know any Mollys, I'm afraid—and I'm terribly good at remembering names and faces, you see. Could you, um, get off?"

"Sherlock…?" He stared at her, willing her to get off with just his eyes. Molly scrambled away, digging into her bag for her mobile phone.

"I—I'm going to call your brother."

"Ah, now we're getting somewhere," there was a pleased tinge to his rough voice, and Molly dared to hope that he was remembering. Maybe she didn't have to call his brother. "You're one of his lackeys, aren't you? Sent to spy on me, make sure I'm not getting into trouble."

The tears did start falling then, and she was sure that Mycroft would hear them as well as Sherlock could see them. When he picked up on the first ring—he always did for her—she didn't let him get in a single word.

"M-Mycrof—Mycroft, Sherlock is awake. You have to come immediately. There's something wrong. I can't be here—I—I can't. Not much longer. Please."

She clicked the phone off. Sherlock was watching her closely, his eyes narrowed and following her every move. She looked at him over her shoulder, pocketing the phone.

"We do know each other Sherlock. We know each other very well. I'm not your brother's _lackey_ , either. You and I we—we're going to—" she couldn't say it. Not when he wouldn't believe her because he couldn't even remember her _name_. She curled up in her chair to have a much needed cry instead.

Sherlock was silent on the bed, looking at her while also tugging a bit at his tubes—they'd put a feeding tube in him, but since he breathed easily on his own he wasn't fully intubated. The saline line was in his arm, and a heart monitor was clipped to his finger. There was another hour or so before the nurses would be round to check on him, and really Molly should have gone to get someone immediately but she didn't want to. She wanted Mycroft to come and make Sherlock come back. _Her_ Sherlock.

"Do you think you could get me a water?"

"I'm not the nurse."

"No, I agree, you are not. You are, however, the only one here at the moment and I would appreciate the," he sucked his teeth a moment, "help." Molly felt a wave of cold steal over her. This was the Sherlock she had met eight years ago at Uni, Sherlock the Arse. No, no, no, no. Please, anything but that man. Any _one_ but that man.

He let the silence linger for a little bit. Sherlock the Arse only ever gave anyone a little of anything.

"Why am I here? And just what were you and I going to do?"

"You're here because you're a bloody idiot, Sherlock. You were on a case—you fell and hit your head, really badly. You were in a coma—and you and I? We…" she didn't glance at her ring, she wasn't going to give Sherlock the Arse any openings. Molly found she wasn't brave enough to say it. Not to this Sherlock—this automaton of a man. She'd spent _eight_ _years_ learning him, learning his moods and his tempers , and the last six years living with him. She wasn't quite ready to start all over again with the arse she'd first met.

"We…?"

"I'll tell you later," she managed with a watery smile. She had to start again, no matter how much it hurt. She had promised him she would stay with him forever, and she'd meant it—what would he think of her if she just let him go the moment he forgot her? Well, what would he think of her if he ever remembered? And besides, this might only last a few days. Molly knew it well enough, from classes which weren't very far behind her.

Sherlock looked at her as though he thought she was lying, a long look through the corner of his eye. Molly managed a smile. She would tell him later, once she wasn't halfway to a panic attack.


	4. Chapter 4

That night she sat outside of his room and cried her heart out. Her tears streamed down her face while she remained silent though, because there was little point in trying to drown out the roaring in her head. Her Sherlock might be back the next day, and it would send him oh so low to think he'd caused her pain in a way he'd promised never to again.

Mycroft had arrived within twenty minutes, briskly slamming the door behind himself after a nodded acknowledgment to her. He and Sherlock had started off speaking in soft tones but each of their voices gradually rose until they were shouting. Instead of trying to pretend she wasn't there and couldn't hear, Molly went away to ask one of the nurses if she could have a cup of tea. They all felt so bad for her, sitting at the side of that man in an inexplicable coma day after day for the last several weeks and they let her have tea from their break room. It was far better tea than was offered to visitors normally, but she was no ordinary visitor.

She tried to chat with the nurses, but found she couldn't. She hadn't told them that Sherlock was awake, and she didn't want to send anyone into the battleground between the Holmes brothers. If she was right, and Molly usually was, then Sherlock had seemingly forgotten the last eight years of his life—or more, really—and the person he had been back then hadn't been a good one.

Molly remembered the classes with him in medical school—he was so _very_ brilliant, and it was just as much a joy to see his mind work as to see his surgical skills. But it was also worse than hell to put a foot wrong around him—there were several other students in the pathology section who dropped out on account of his harsh words. Sherlock of eight years ago was prickly and mean, scornful of the normal day-to-day lives of everyone around him. His respect, back then, had been reserved for the dead.

When her soon-to-be-brother-in-law came out, she knew by his face that he was now her might-one-day-be-her-brother-in-law. He took gentle steps towards her, flicking his eyes at one of the nurses who quickly made his way towards Sherlock's room. If she'd been feeling better she might have smirked—of course Mycroft would have this place filled with his own personnel.

"He—he is resistant to the idea that he's been in a coma for the last several weeks. My brother is rather of the opinion that he is twenty two and about to start medical school in the fall. This is, of course you know, around the last time he was fully sober and without addictions. I will be calling one of the family doctors about referrals to memory specialists but Molly—" his hand was gentle on her shoulder, "—he may never recover."

They had always known this—they had always hoped otherwise. The brain was a tricky place—delicate and strong, fragile and resilient—and one never truly _knew_ with brain injuries just _who_ would wake up with _what_ abilities. Recovery was also hit-and-miss.

"May I stay near him? Please?"

"Molly, of course you should stay with him. You have to help him remember—"

"I _know_ , Mycroft. Believe me, I know—I promised him. I promised him I'd never leave him. But I won't force him to accept that we were engaged—he can live his life how he wants to, whatever the outcome—I won't even mention anything unless he remembers. Please?"

Her might-have-been-brother-in-law sucked in an almighty sigh but turned one of his bland smiles on to appease her. Molly knew she'd won, despite everything probably racing through Mycroft's head at the moment. If she cared less about Sherlock and more about herself she might have chosen to force the issue, but that just wasn't the case.

"He will be furious, if his memory returns, to think that you wouldn't fight for him."

"I refuse to force him, though, Mycroft—he will understand, if he does snap out of this."

"Then I will leave this as your responsibility. Is there anything you'd have me do to help you?"


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock was being affected by several different things. The specialists, flown in from all over the world, said it was a minor anterograde amnesia overlaying a more severe retrograde amnesia. Early on, her fiancée couldn't recall things from day to day for several days—but once that was out of his system, he still didn't remember the last eight years of his _life_.

He was still brilliant at medicine, chemistry in particular—the nurses said he criticized the medication dosages they were giving him as wrong among other things. And he was right, his doctors had confirmed—bewildered, yes, but they readily admitted their mistakes and corrected them swiftly.

Molly was completely erased from his life. From the first time they met, their homework dates, their teasing banter over who was better at moving the body block from under the chest to under the head, the first time they slept together, all of it was gone. She mourned the loss, but celebrated that at least the scars of his drug addiction were gone as well as though they'd never happened. He slept easily at night according to the nurses, and didn't scratch the old wounds of needles when he was lost in thought. The only things he seemed to remember from his old life, the life he'd promised to share with her, was the flat he'd found for them and Greg Lestrade. He also remembered Mrs. Hudson with startling clarity, as well as her spiteful husband who was locked up in America awaiting certain death, and he remembered how deeply he wanted to live in 221B Baker Street.

She found she couldn't be around him early on—the first few days because he woke up not even remembering the day before, or the morning visit, and then later when it was apparent that he wasn't returning to himself. Molly instead asked Mycroft for information, and knitted some more scarves for Sherlock—though she kept these to herself.

"He claims an interest in forensic pathology—I've directed him to St. Bartholomew's, Molly, where he will run into you quite a lot. We could think of this as an experiment of sorts, you know," Mycroft's voice was as gentle as he could make it. She had recently taken a job as the assisting pathologist at St. Bart's, trying to continue living her life as she'd planned to with Sherlock. That way he knew where to find her if he ever recovered without his brother nearby.

Her smile wavered with her voice as she answered.

"He fell in love with me once on accident, perhaps he might again—is that what you're saying?"

"Precisely."

She nodded. It was worth a try, if anything it would keep them close together. Force them, really, but who was counting? Molly certainly wasn't—it was time to face up to the reality that Sherlock Holmes had hit his head and that, while his memory might be jogged by familiar situations, he was a brand new person now. Perhaps seeing her constantly would trigger some déjà vu in him and would lead him to question where he knew her from. . It reminded her of his favorite little phrase—once you've ruled out the impossible, the improbable must be true.

And time always wore Sherlock's sharp edges down, taking his lethal cruelty back to blunt awfulness which was a greatly preferred attitude. In the time that it took Sherlock to question where he had to remember her from, he would be (even minutely) a kinder person.

Molly settled down to wait for him, because she would never force him to do anything. She didn't want to _make_ him be with her despite wanting him desperately. Sherlock would decide to be with her, or he wouldn't. But she would wait for him at the hospital they'd both dreamed of working at so that if he remembered he would know where to find her.


	6. Chapter 6

"Molly, is it?"

"Yes, Molly Hooper—and you are?" She tried her best to not act like she knew everything about him, though from his odd look she wasn't sure she succeeded.

"Sherlock Holmes," his hand was warm in hers as he shook it. "I'm going to be using your lab for my work until further notice. You should find the forged permissions and legal forms filed somewhere under equally forged dates tomorrow or the next day if my brother's people are being lazy otherwise they should be there now."

"Now, show me the way and try not to dawdle." Not once had she ever been able to say an outright _no_ to him, and today was no exception. Molly smiled, her lips fluttering and making it look unsure, and turned around to lead him to her laboratory. Her lab—well, hers and Mike Stamford's—was three floors up from the morgue where Sherlock had wandered to find her. She and Mike kept the lab carefully locked at all times, a paranoia Mike said stemmed from one of his old acquaintances. A man named John somethingorother who would sneak into labs to work on his homework and also utilize the equipment he found for experiments he would devise. A very creative man, and he reminded Molly—through Mike's tales of him—a bit of Sherlock.

"What is it for, your work, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Oh—this and that. Today I just want to watch the digestion process of sugar by saliva. Brought several personal samples."

"Sounds…fascinating, Sh—Mr. Holmes." Four months ago she had been sleeping in the same bed as this man, and he had been making her dinners for when she came home from school or work. Two months ago he had fallen and lost all memory of her—and it was _damn_ hard to remember that he didn't know who she was. At all.

"Please, call me Sherlock."

"Well—Sherlock—let me know how else I can help you around here. What—what will you usually be doing around St. Bart's?"

"That's the fun bit! Solving crimes on a freelance basis—acting as a consulting detective—calming down after bad days by getting out the chemistry set, among other things. Apparently," he took a conspiratorial tone, "I'm nearly thirty against my knowledge, and I was already a detective. My brother won't tell me more than that, though I'm sure there is more to the story. I plan on digging it up and making the culprit pay for it."

_Of course Mycroft wouldn't tell you any more, I asked him and everyone else not to talk about me. Because right now you've not a single sympathetic bone in your whole body and you won't even pity me for losing you the way I have. I'm starting from square one, Sherlock, so I'm making you start there too._

"Well, hopefully you get that sorted, right?"

"Indeed. Now—lab?"

Molly turned around and unlocked the room, taking a deep breath to prepare herself for trying to get Sherlock to fall in love with her a second time. At least she knew most of the things that wouldn't work, and could save herself a little bit of time. Sherlock followed her in, and as she watched his sure movements she wanted to mention it to him.

She wanted to point out that although he'd never been to her lab at Bart's he still knew exactly where she kept everything—she wanted Sherlock to notice that he didn't even know her but still he knew where _Molly Hooper_ would put her lab equipment. He was clever, but he wasn't that clever. Instead, she kept her mouth shut and went back to her own paperwork—Mike was trying to foist one of his advanced classes on her when she was supposed to have the next term off, so she had to look extra busy lately. Far, far too busy to be taking on extra work.

"You've lost someone recently. Someone close to you."

The papers on the desk hazed out as tears flooded her eyes. Of course he would figure something out, and of course he would figure _that_ out the fastest. Molly wondered what had given her away, but it was too painful to ask what had done it. To have Sherlock so very near to the truth, but unable to see it.

"About two months ago, yes. He's gone—um, we, we were going to get married. Not now, obviously." She managed not to giggle, but she also managed not to have her eyes tear up. Molly considered it a victory.

Sherlock was silent for a long time.

"Well, best not to dwell. He probably wouldn't want you to—Heaven knows that if the situation were reversed he would be moving on by now."

Molly didn't let her mouth purse in annoyance, instead dropping it open in shock—she had certainly been right that _Sherlock the Arse_ had made a fully-fledged reappearance. Only the Sherlock of eight years ago would say something so completely awful. But she had to make him think that this was her first time encountering him and his viciously honest words. She didn't find it hard.

"Get out. Get out now, Sherlock Holmes." She didn't even hear her voice as she began to say it, a litany of her pain threading her words.

"Out, out, out. You can come back later when Mike's here. Get out get out get out." He was looking at her in shock, as though he'd thought his words would have different effect than they'd had. Molly didn't stop to wonder just what Sherlock thought he was saying underneath what he'd actually said. It hurt too much at the time.


	7. Chapter 7

It took months to heal from what he'd said. Molly was strong, but having _Sherlock_ say those things was intolerable—when there was no way to tell him that _he_ was the one she was dwelling on. Eventually, though, her hurt eased out of her heart and she tugged her courage back into it. Once she'd done this, she asked him out for tea—and tried not to be miserable when he answered the same way he had all those years ago. _No tea, Molly. Black coffee please, two sugars, I'll be somewhere else in the lab._ At least his coffee order hadn't changed, he was still the same person. He was just Sherlock Holmes without the emotional baggage of a fiancé or a history of drug addiction.

She'd smiled—Sherlock had given up coffee at the same time he'd given up the cocaine, saying that stimulants had led him to that point and he didn't need any more. Sherlock had never been able to kick the cigarettes, but he had deeply missed the drink, always frowning sadly at the various teas she would get for him to replace his coffee. Molly was happy that his bad memories associated with coffee were gone, because he could be happy in this way once again—guilt free, too.

Sherlock always forgot that he also liked just a pinch of salt in his coffee to allay some of the bitterness. Molly hesitated as she reached for the little salt shaker before putting her hand back on the edge of the counter. She had so far done nothing really to punish him or to cause him pain or distress or anything—she hadn't even forced herself into his life again against his will. _Well, Mr. Chemistry Major, maybe next time you'll remember the salt yourself._

There was a man in the lab with Sherlock and Mike when she came back in. They were talking about the flat at Baker Street—the flat where she and Sherlock were going to live, the one she would probably never see the walls of again. She tried to make herself invisible as she gave him the coffee and left the room, because she wasn't quite sure she could contain the heartbreak she felt.

Sherlock was moving on with his life, leaving her behind.

She resolved then to be kind to the man—Anthony Bryant—who was considering being Sherlock's flatmate. Because at least Sherlock would always come to her for the things she could help him with here. Not everyone had the full chemistry set like she did—though not everyone _needed_ the full chemistry set like Sherlock did. Molly hoped for the best, though she also hoped that Sherlock didn't like his coffee nearly as much as he'd thought he would.

It turned out that Anthony Bryant was put off by Sherlock's hobbies within weeks of moving in, and the lab which had been empty for those weeks was suddenly full of Sherlock once again. He was living in Baker Street and helping his brother with private, governmental work to pay the rent. The DI she'd met the night of Sherlock's accident started to slowly rely on Sherlock's intelligence and analytical eye, sending bodies of from his cases to her morgue because it was the only one where Sherlock felt comfortable.

Molly timidly followed the blog that the 'consulting detective' started for himself, smiling fondly over his obsessive cataloguing of tobacco ash types. She told herself that she wasn't being pathetic, keeping up with his life in this way.

Life went on—she got a cat, and smothered him with the love she couldn't give Sherlock anymore. The little feline was more like the detective than she liked to admit—he scratched, but he most often didn't mean to. Molly tried to see other men as the months slipped into a year and then two, but her heart wasn't in it—because her _heart_ was still engaged to Sherlock Holmes. The ring he'd given her, a small and cunning little thing, was rarely worn now though she did sometimes put it on a chain and wear it around her neck.

Sherlock lived his life as though there wasn't an eight year gap in his memory, occasionally dropping into her labs to abscond with materials or technology. He would smile and try to charm his way into prohibited access areas—which would never have worked on another person than her, because only Molly was able to put up with his awful temper tantrums when things didn't go according to plan. None of the techs would work with him and the sight of his mop of curls would send Mike Stamford, the head pathologist, scampering for his office to avoid that smiling charm.

Molly tried not to lose hope as two years became three and three years became four. Surely he would remember, or at the very least begin to notice her soon.


	8. Chapter 8

The worst of it happened in the middle of the fifth year since Sherlock's injury. Molly had slipped up—she had put on lipstick before asking Sherlock out for a coffee, actually shown her hand with her enduring affection for him—and within days her (former? Amnesiac?) fiancé had a new flatmate. A doctor, come back from Afghanistan, who fit the description of Mike's friend John somethingorother. The one who used to be into experiments and breaking into labs, a pre-made best friend for Sherlock.

They were perfect for one another, but now with someone at home to talk to it seemed that Sherlock rarely came to Bart's. He finished up his experiments for the most part and moved all of his work to Baker Street, leaving Molly twisting her hands in the middle of her mortuary, staring after his retreating back. He still came on occasion—one memorable evening he had arrived in the caf and tried to make conversation before asking a favor from her. Molly had hoped, that evening, that he had remembered how much he hated when she parted her hair down the middle after he pointed out that parted to the side suited her better.

It had been for nothing, really, but she took particular joy in helping him prove a point to the young DI he'd brought with him. Everything about those moments reminded her of school. When one of them would notice an anomaly on a cadaver, the other would retrieve one of the professors and help demonstrate the problem or interesting fact. Even if the recollections went over Sherlock's head, Molly refused to allow that knowledge to dim her happiness.

She had been taking happy memories wherever she could over the last several years—cut off from the man she loved by his injury, and cut off from the family who had wanted to adopt her nearly as their own by the man she loved.

It was shortly after the case of the men with the tattooed feet that a man introduced himself to Molly. He said his name was Jim Moran, from IT, and he came to sit with her in the caf. She was having toast and beans, while he had helped himself to the pork with not a little bit of relishing delight. Jim was fun, and chatted with her animatedly about the things which she comforted herself with since losing Sherlock—mostly bad television, and stupid American imports of bad television.

An idea had occurred to her then—if Sherlock was anything, he was freakishly possessive. If he actually saw her with another living, breathing man then he might get unsettled. He might remember, even if all he remembered was that for some reason she wasn't allowed to date (other men at least). It would be something.

But he didn't. He didn't at all, and he spoiled everything by just how little he cared that she was putting herself on another man's arm. Later on in the day, alone in her office, Molly let herself cry—it had been so long since she'd been able to curl into Sherlock's coat and wrap her arms around him. She missed him so deeply, and this only served to remind her that even though Jim was nice he wasn't Sherlock—and that her Sherlock was probably never coming back.

Why, oh why, did Sherlock have to have been so very honest to the point of cruelty? Couldn't he have said something silly and possessive of the fact that out of anyone at the hospital Molly only paid attention to him and to Mike Stamford—been the least bit territorial of at least her usefulness to him? Even that would have been better than what he'd done.


	9. Chapter 9

Lestrade, who was her tenuous friend of the last five years, made sure she got invited to the party. He was going through a rough patch in his own personal life, and Molly could tell that the man genuinely wanted her to have something like a happy ending after her struggles. He'd been so very against Molly's decision to let Sherlock remember in his own time, and lately she could understand why.

Molly still believed that someday Sherlock would remember, too, and got her hopes up that tonight _her_ Sherlock would come back. She had gotten him some new gloves—his own were showing signs of wear—and tucked one of her knitted scarves into the package as well. The leather gloves were jet black, while the scarf was a dashing scarlet. Her cat rubbed against her calf as she sat down to write out the card title, using the same words she had used on every gift she'd ever given him when they were together.

_Dearest Sherlock, Love Molly x x x_

It had halfway worked—Sherlock had had a jealous fit in just the way he'd always done before his accident. He was particularly cruel when he was feeling slighted, belittled, or ignored. If she had been throwing this party she would have known about and done so many things to put him at ease—instead, the party John and Mrs. Hudson had arranged had put Sherlock into a massive defensive-behavior cycle. And then he'd seen her, and it was obvious he felt passed-over from the brief eye-contact she'd managed to hold him to.

Molly drew hope from his long and painful recitation of her intentions and hopes which is why she didn't throw her wine at him or slap his face. Instead she let him kiss her cheek and reveled in the feeling right up until she'd heard the gasped moan of a text message, and felt her heart shatter. No one faulted her for leaving the party soon after Sherlock went to his room to sulk. She tried not to think about the sadness and pity on John Watson's face—he knew her secret now, he had to. He'd seen how well she withstood Sherlock's merciless dissection, and he'd likely known that he himself wasn't strong enough to take that sort of focus.

But Sherlock had found himself a girlfriend, it seemed, and Molly knew she'd lost her chance. Just how badly she'd lost it, she didn't find out until much later in the evening. Mycroft had phoned her, asking if she could be at the hospital to do the intake on a body his people had found.

"I have to say, Molly, that Sherlock will be coming with me. He is going to make the positive ID on the body."

"Who is it?"

"I think you know very well who it is, despite lacking a name for her." Her giggle was forced and halfhearted after that.

"At least I've still got a chance, if she's dead right?" She knew Sherlock's brother well enough to almost see the pained grimace of a smile he gave in return. Molly had changed out of the dress hours ago—the dress that Sherlock had bought her a few years ago. The earrings, which were his favorite gaudy ones that he insisted she wear as often as possible when they'd gone out, were off and her hair was back as it should be.

Molly had tried, for the party, to be as perfect a vision of _Sherlock's_ Molly as she could. It had just barely worked to the point of not working at all.

She went to the morgue and prepared the body for viewing, bravely resisting the urge to pull faces at the dead woman. People couldn't help who they fell in love with, she knew that well enough, and it wasn't nice of her to take such joy after a death. Molly felt that Sherlock was lucky that someone who loved him was prepping the body of someone he loved—and prepping him for looking at it.

Her heart had broken in a way it hadn't so far when her dear, dear Sherlock—the man she'd given everything to in every way—identified the dead woman by…not her face. Mycroft had stared not at the body but at Molly, pity and the words _I'm sorry, so very, very sorry_ projecting from his face so brightly that she almost thought he was speaking them directly to her.

Sherlock had left the morgue without a word.


	10. Chapter 10

Molly tried to be in as good of spirits as she could around him after that. Someone he cared a great deal for had just died, obviously. Though it was her lab, she tried to be invisible in it, to avoid bothering him. Heaven knows she didn't want to even speak to people after she'd had to give Sherlock up five years ago.

He had had to stay at the hospital until his memory stabilized, and his remaining injuries healed over. During that time Mycroft had sent his best, most discreet people to help Molly move out of the flat on Gower street and into a new one—her should-have-been-brother-in-law paid for the new flat and wouldn't hear a word otherwise. Molly hadn't asked about Sherlock's things, knowing that they were being packed away and moved to the Holmes family house until Sherlock was on his feet somehow.

She hadn't had a single conversation that lasted longer than a minute or two for more than a month, instead living a half-life between her new flat and her new job at St. Bartholomew's—it was with this perspective that Molly tried to comfort Sherlock as best she could. She only brought up things which wouldn't have caused her pain—the fun things, the good memories if he had any.

Sherlock commandeered her lab one afternoon, though, a few months later and x-rayed a camera phone.

It wasn't the weirdest thing she'd ever seen Sherlock do in the thirteen years she'd known him. In fact it wasn't even in the top ten—number one being when one night, during a particularly long bender, he had arranged their entire flat by color, construction material, origin of ownership and size while she was asleep. Number two was his rather pleased reaction to this news the next time he was sober.

She had hoped, as she'd asked whose phone it was that it was the phone of one of his clients—that he was on a case. Molly remembered, looking at him sitting so easily in her lab, the one tour they'd taken as students here to Bart's. They'd loved it, and with her hand sitting in the crook of his arm he had promised that they would both work there someday. He would specialize further into criminal forensics, and she would stick to her more generalized pathology and they would be happy. Here they were—and really, they were as happy as they could be in the situation. He had a girlfriend, it seemed, while Molly was still allowed to be near him.

Molly hadn't _known_ he had yet another girlfriend, but it didn't really surprise her. Sherlock could be charming when he wanted to be—and he was only charming with people who could deal with him. Though rare, such people _did_ exist and Sherlock managed to root them out relentlessly.

"You think she's my girlfriend because I'm x-raying her possessions?"

She didn't tell him about the hyper-assortment of their belongings—instead settling for "We all do silly things."

His rationale, years ago once he'd come down from his high, had been that he had to know what needed to be baby-proofed in case of some accident or failure in birth control. He had been such a silly, wonderful man for her and Molly missed him—she was glad that he didn't look over at her, that he didn't see the tears threatening to rise up in her eyes. He was nearly sweet nowadays, and it had only taken five years. Sure, his flatmate John complained that Sherlock was an unfeeling bastard but really Molly knew better. She was in the midst of willing herself to be happy for whatever woman it was that Sherlock had his eye on when something about their conversation changed his entire manner.

"They _do_ , don't they? _Very_ silly…"

The realization slipped into her head within seconds— _he_ **was** _on a case!_

It was a complicated situation—and hard to decipher while not inside Sherlock's head—but Molly relaxed as much as she could. He wasn't dating the woman whose phone he had, was actually slightly derisive of the idea and of the woman it seemed. She grimaced, once he was turned to his work once more, at the thought that she'd almost lost him somehow.

The thing with Sherlock was that he got attached to people, and put others to the side once he formed new attachments. One could never really be sure who he would put away, either, as he input new people into his mental list of "tolerables." Molly hoped to always be on that list, even though she was fairly sure that that wasn't truly the case.


	11. Chapter 11

It was in late spring that Sherlock seemed to once again go back to 'normal.' He went on his cases, though more than occasionally hounded by the press, and came to Bart's when he needed to run tests. Molly, who had spent many nights recently crying herself to sleep if she slept at all, tried to put him out of mind. She loved him, so much it hurt, but she was thirty three this year. There was a lot of life that she wanted to experience, and it was time to make herself believe that she wouldn't be experiencing it with Sherlock.

There was a nice man she started to have the occasional lunch date with. His name was Steven, an x-ray technician, and although he was a little awkward Molly didn't really mind. She liked awkward, because she was awkward—she'd always found awkward men, too, even Sherlock was. The last painful five years didn't fade, though, no matter what she did. Steven had some sort of painful past too, which is why she could even deal with him. It wouldn't last, they both knew, it wouldn't even progress. But it was something.

The blog that Sherlock's flat-mate kept was her most visited place—Sherlock's blog was rarely updated anymore. She wondered what Doctor Watson had said to Sherlock that caused him to stop. The tall detective was incredibly self-conscious about the things he indulged himself with, the things he did that made him happy. Despite how pleased he could be at times with his cases, the things that made Sherlock truly happy were few and far between.

Brilliant riddles and games were his favorites, and were actually the things which no one could take the joy of from him. Behind those were his hobbies—the study of scents and of textures—and lastly was his personal appearance and mannerisms. They were little things in other people's lives, but in Sherlock's were absolutely huge—that he'd stopped updating his blog indicated that someone close to him had disparaged it.

If she could have been there for him in something more than she already was, Molly was sure he would have continued publishing his studies.

In the midst of this, came the trial of Jim Moriarty. Jim, the man from the previous summer, wasn't called _Moran_ , and he was the one responsible for the bombings of last summer. He was also responsible for so much more. Molly worried for Sherlock, as the eye of the media zeroed in on him at the center of the Moriarty trial.

And then the other shoe had started to fall.

Molly saw it as Sherlock stormed towards her, with John Watson at his side, and dragged her back to her lab. Steven would have to wait as Sherlock produced two bags of crisps from his pockets—it would have made her smile at the memory that that was always how Sherlock had kidnapped her before his accident, save for the words which came out of his mouth as he did. Sherlock spoke as though Molly herself hadn't realized just who Jim _Moriarty_ had been, what his angle had been with getting close to her.

The lab was dreadfully cold around her as she ran about getting things for Sherlock—reference books for the most part—or running tests for him. All the while she watched out the corner of her eye. Molly saw the way Sherlock watched John out of the corner of his eye, and also noticed how he hadn't once looked at her since grabbing her in the hallway. Invisibility was awful, but it also gave her the strength to actually talk to him as she hadn't in years.

If he couldn't see her, he might not hear her—and if he didn't hear her, he couldn't say anything mean about her words. The memory of her dad made her do it.

"You're a bit like my dad." Molly had gone through her father's death just months before Sherlock had switched from casual cocaine use to full-on addict—he had been just functional enough to help her through it before descending into his own hell. He had dropped out of school, and it was only Mycroft's constant worry and aid that had kept them in the flat they shared.

"He's dead." Maybe sadness, not happiness was the key that she hadn't yet tried? Maybe bringing up the shared past they had might, as all of the doctors and nurses had claimed, bring back Sherlock's lost memories. It didn't work, but then she'd never thought it would. Not really. But the short conversation, where Sherlock looked at her—actually looked at her for the first time in years—made miles of headway.

She'd even managed to let him know that she knew when he was lying to be nice—he hated crisps, he never ever wanted crisps. Sherlock never breathed a word of this, however, because he didn't like people to tease him for disliking such a staple of people with poor or odd hours and poorer, odder eating schedules. Though it was a bit rude, it proved that she knew him far better than he'd given her credit over the last five years. _No, I_ know _you don't_.


	12. Chapter 12

It wasn't even a full day before she saw him again, just as she was turning out the lights to go home.

The lab had been an absolute mess and she stayed late to clean it. No sense in sending Mike into a tizzy tomorrow over the scattered reference books and the test tubes which weren't yet put away after their trip through the autoclave. It was soothing, looking at Sherlock's notes while she waited for each load to get through the autoclave. His notations were beautiful and precise as always, and she appreciated his haste with this case—he'd left his papers here at the lab instead of taking them home with him as he almost always did these days.

The chemicals were organized in the closet once more, all of the equipment finally sterilized and put away once again, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she grabbed her bags and put on her light jacket. Tomorrow would be a new day—after figuring out the sugar molecule, the case her detective had been on would be solved quickly, and then he would be on a new one. She wondered just how long, and how dangerous, this new 'game' with Jim Moriarty was going to be for Sherlock. The last one had nearly gotten John Watson blown to kingdom come.

Just as she put her hand on the door, Sherlock gave her the fright of her life.

"You were wrong you know."

He looked like a phantom, the ghost of Christmas future, standing in the darkness of the lab with his coat still pulled close around his body. Sherlock's face was turned away from her as he spoke, but in the utterly frigid silence of the laboratory his voice was crystal clear. She didn't move, just tried to breathe normally after nearly shrieking in fear. It was obvious he didn't want anyone knowing he was here, otherwise he would have had the damn lights on, and a woman's scream inevitably brought people running.

"You do count. You've always counted, and I've always trusted you." Her heart leapt, but she knew something was wrong. It wasn't like him to hang about in dark rooms waiting for people. Sherlock was weird and much more, but this wasn't normal for him. "But you were right, I'm not okay." His eyes looked haunted like they used to after he'd recovered from his drugs—his eyes looked like they did on the nights he was at his weakest with fighting the lingering allure of the cocaine.

"Tell me what's wrong." It was best to be direct with him when he was like this.

"Molly, I think I'm going to die." Those were—the words. The words he would say when he wanted her to lock him in the closet rather than let him slip out of the flat to find a dealer who hadn't yet been harassed by Mycroft's people to not sell to him. The nights where he really did think that if he went out on the streets, that he would be found dead in an alley the next morning. Though the reach of the cocaine was all-encompassing and truly awful, Sherlock hadn't always been completely out of touch through the haze of his addiction.

"What do you need?" But this Sherlock wasn't on cocaine. This Sherlock's addictions were fairly legal, though a bit on the vigilante side of things. This Sherlock didn't have any use for Molly Hooper and they both knew it, but he was here nonetheless. She'd had to ask, had to know. She'd offered anyway, he he had to understand that she was still willing to do anything for him. She'd once made a habit of locking him in the closet on his own orders, not much else could be weirder than that.

"If I wasn't everything that you think I am, everything that _I_ think I am, would you still want to help me?" The low thread of desperation in his voice made her wonder just what had happened in the time since he'd left the lab—but it didn't matter. She had to reassure him, and therefore she didn't quail or stutter under his fierce stare as he advanced on her. Tears, though, were about to fall from her eyes as she asked once again:

"What do you need?"

_"You."_


	13. Chapter 13

She didn't move a muscle, just stared up at him waiting for him to continue. Sherlock huffed a laugh, ducking his head a little in self-deprecation as he took one last step to put himself far, far too close to her to be normal. Molly refused to believe that this was happening, because it couldn't be. It hadn't happened in five years, why should it happen now of all times? Had the thought of being in danger of dying brought it up? And why this time—not the time he'd quietly asked her to have a look at his throat to make sure he was recovering properly from being nearly strangled to death. Nor the other time when Jim Moriarty was running around strapping bombs to people? Why now? She wouldn't believe it until he actually said it. Said that he was actually back.

"Molly…"

There was a hand, cool from the lab and shaking from something else, at her cheek and another one on her shoulder. She squeezed her eyes shut, too close to sobbing like a child to keep them open a moment longer. It had to be imagination after a long and stressful day, hearing the tender note in his voice. There was just no way—she'd read up on the studies done, the nuances of human memory. What could come back, and when it would if it ever did.

"You're always so amazing with your promises—I've not been much good with any of mine, though have I?" His hands left her shoulder and cheek, instead circling his arms around her—lumpy bag and oversized jacket and all—and pulling her close as Molly finally lost it. She was crying fat, ugly tears into his scarf and shirt, his wool coat shrouding her and putting her in nearly complete darkness. But Sherlock didn't flinch away from her. He instead clutched her to his body, one hand going up to grab at her hair, and his breath warmed and tickled her ear and neck.

They stood there for several minutes—Molly crying and Sherlock making the very occasional comforting gesture through words or touch. It was awkward and awful, but at the same time it was right. The way that he wanted to hold her but didn't quite remember how just yet, the way that she would catch herself almost patting him to check if he was still real only to have new tears fall from her eyes as she realized that yes, yes he was.

Once she had thoroughly soaked his shirt, and there was a headache starting to ping behind her eyesockets, she just closed her eyes and breathed in the smell and warmth of her Sherlock. He didn't move except to lay a kiss on her hair.

"Jim Moriarty wants me to kill myself, Molly. There's no way to escape what he's got planned, so I have to fake my death somehow without him finding out."

She didn't ask if he was sure. Sherlock was always sure when he told her things, and besides she trusted him to be smart enough to outwit Jim Moriarty. If there was anyone aside from perhaps Mycroft, who was too busy running a country to really devote attention to Jim Moriarty, it would be Sherlock.

"How is he trying to make you do it?"

"By threatening to kill all the people I love but he's missed someone. This morning he _might_ have conned me into doing it his way—I might have fallen to my death in all likelihood if he'd tried any earlier. But the thing is," he laughed again, grabbing her shoulders and pulling away just a little bit so he could look into her eyes, "he waited one day too long. I've remembered you. I've remembered _you_ , Molly. And he didn't count on that. He didn't count on me counting on _you_." He smiled, leaned in almost to kiss her but hesitated and stopped—she had no choice after that but to grab him and plant a good one on him. She'd always known he would remember on his own, always.

"I've missed you so much," she managed to say between hesitant, exploratory kisses.

"Well, you and I are going to be in close quarters for the foreseeable future after tomorrow. You won't have to miss me again, not ever again. We'll—we'll work this out. We'll have time to talk about all of everything. What we plan on doing." Molly couldn't resist it and poked his chest a little to indicate that she knew what he was trying to talk his way around. There were five years between them and the people they'd been when he'd asked her to marry him.

"I'm not silly, Sherlock, I've known I would have to take you as you came. I've always known that. I'll still take you as you are."

"Do you still have it? The ring I gave you?" the smirk tugging up the corner of his mouth did his curiosity in—of course he knew she still had it. Molly smiled, stepping once again so she was flush with his body and fished her necklace out of her shirt. The cunning little ring still had a smart sparkle to it because she had it regularly cleaned.

"Of course I do you great lump," she managed to say as Sherlock closed his hand around hers, tucking the ring into her palm, and kissing her knuckles just once.

They would be okay. Molly knew it deep in her heart as Sherlock finally—reluctantly—pulled away from her to go over the plan he had worked out on his way over to Bart's from wherever he'd been earlier that evening. He stood right next to her, sketching out what was to happen over the next twelve hours or so, with his free hand on her lower back. It would all be strange for a while, but for now there was the amazing joy overriding everything that Sherlock had _finally remembered_.


	14. Chapter 14

Once everything was in order—a note faked in Moriarty's handwriting telling of his kidnap and murder of Molly Hooper, complete with taunts that her body wouldn't ever be found, a body brought in to substitute for Sherlock's own in the morgue and later the funeral, and many other such details—Molly and Sherlock got into one of Mycroft's shiny black cars and were whisked away and out of London. She'd had her hair cut by one of Mycroft's people into a bob—hair which Sherlock had mourned to see go—and it had been dyed to a dark brown. Sherlock's hair was cut short and was now very, very, atrociously blonde. The stylist even attacked his eyebrows while they were at it.

In the boot of the car were boxes of pictures and documents which Mycroft had taken away from Molly five years ago—to prevent Sherlock ever seeing them and forming incorrect conclusions from them. But it had also been a kindness to Molly, who didn't need to pine over Sherlock any more than she had been at the time. Through everything, Mycroft had endeavored to keep both Molly and Sherlock from suffering too much from the fall Sherlock had taken. Now, though, things were different.

They wanted to test out just how much Sherlock remembered, and quizzing him about the photographs and playbills and letters would bear out what he could recall and what was still lost in that dizzyingly huge brain of his. Molly spent most of the drive cuddled up to his side in the car and one of his arms was draped over her shoulders. It wasn't as easily affectionate as it had been before, but it was at least there and Molly reveled in it.

"What made you remember?"

What, in five years of having her buzzing in the periphery of his life, had made him remember who she was and what she meant to him?

"I'll tell you later. Once things are safe again. It is too long of a story to tell you while I've got other things on my mind." Molly nodded, closing her eyes and absorbing Sherlock's warmth. He cared about more people now than he had before—before his accident Sherlock had cared about only Molly, vaguely his family, and nearly no one else. Now they were on their way to one of Mycroft's safe-houses to conduct research on Jim Moriarty's criminal network, and their findings would have Mycroft sending out all of his best Bonds to dismantle the group—and the only reason they were doing it was because Sherlock cared about more people than just his immediate family these days. It was going to be wonderful, she knew.

"Promise?"

"Promise."


End file.
